


The Politics of Hidden

by Ticigi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Anal Sex, Anorexia, Anxiety, Blackcest (Harry Potter), Consensual Underage Sex, Eating Disorders, M/M, Sibling Incest, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ticigi/pseuds/Ticigi
Summary: Inside Grimmauld Place lingered a plethora of secrets, belonging to every soul that resided there, in many layers of importance, spreading its eery branches at the rooms and at the tongues that passed ahead some of the stories in low tones in casual contribution to their resilience.One of them, an open secret among their household that made it’s dark and unwanted presence known at every meal, was of the most delicate nature: Regulus didn't eat.
Relationships: Orion Black/Walburga Black, Regulus Black/Sirius Black
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you skipped the tags and summary here It goes: TW for Eating Disorder  
> I hesitated before posting this because, aside from turning out differently from what I have initially planned (which was a much shorter version, as this is mostly about internal struggle and can get a bit boring if extended),it covers a sensitive subject that I'm not qualified to speak about, so please don't take anything too seriously.  
> You'll see that here, Regulus's family sort of walk around the problem for a while, but from what I've seen, it's not uncommon for family and friends not to now how to adress the problem or take long before actually noticing there is something going on (in fact, reading stories from ed community, it's common that parents either take long before confronting the problem or do it in completely innapropriate ways that only aggravates the problem - ED's are tricky and many things can serve as a trigger. Here, I HC that the Blacks would definitelly be unaware of how to deal with mental health issues and the wizarding community overall is behind muggles in terms of mental health.  
> Also, regarding typical traits associated with anorexia: here there are no calorie counting or obsessive stepping on a scale because Regulus had no acess over this things. The wizarding world is behind in research and technology muggles had over the 20th century - so calorie labelling isn't popular, BMI is not common knowlegde and healers mostly use just scales when there's actual need to know weight, and not as routinary practice. Most of the food Regulus has acess over has no nutritional labels, therefore it's no use to calorie counting, and there were never scales in Grimmauld Place- aside from kitchen and potions usage.  
> (Tbh, I just like to imagine the Blacks as a problematic victorian-like family)  
> At some point over the chapters, there's a mention of another member of the family that Regulus noticed having some suspicious behaviours. This is a hint over the fact that anorexia has a genetic component.  
> But enough from my rambling, otherwise notes are going to be bigger than the actual story.  
> I hope you enjoy it =)

Inside Grimmauld Place lingered a plethora of secrets, belonging to every soul that resided there, in many layers of importance, spreading its eery, contorted branches into the rooms and at the tongues that passed ahead some of the stories in low tones in casual contribution to their resilience.

Some were carefully written in beautiful calligraphies and guarded in charmed wood boxes as documents made to never be seen more than once, an example being the century old terms for Cepheus Black – who used to spend his gold to keep the company of young boys for rather appalling activities – freedom, acquired with a great deal of efforts, in the form of subtle hints at minister officials, and many shiny coins to keep their mouths closed with satisfaction from the weight in their pockets; in personal journals – such as Walburga's, kept inside a drawer in her bedside table, protected enough for nobody dare try to touch; in some of the many trinkets and jewelry inherited – Hesper's diamonds necklace being one of them, the one with an impressive blue diamond on the center that matched beautifully with her eyes, infamous for being gifted from an unnamed, handsome and young french gentleman long after she was married into the Black family; in the sentient portraits of their ancestors, and hidden inside cabinets and under beds – including Sirius’s small collection of illustrated books and magazines, the ones he used to sought at night, mostly at the beginning of his adolescence, the images displaying more skin than Walburga would approve for her sons to have access over.

One of them, an open secret among their household that made it’s dark and unwanted presence known at every meal, was of the most delicate nature: Regulus didn't eat. He hadn't sealed his mouth and mind out of it completely, of course, otherwise he would perish in a matter of weeks. But perishing he was, nonetheless, only in the slow rhythm that he picked on his fork, small as his consumption.

His behaviour was seen as strange and irrational, so no one quite knew how to address the matter directly – not at it’s full form; but there was Walburga's – the only one strong witted enough to dig her way over the contour of the unspoken – persistence at many occasions, only hinting at the problem by urging him try and have a bit more, to go down to the dining room, to not leave the table until he finished his dinner, warmed with magic until both were tired and he was sent to his room, to force him out of bed and drag him downstairs and if he dared to refuse breakfast there would be no new broom and he would be banned from their library for a month; Sirius, an spectator at this particular occasion, muttered a mockery at that, because _how was that a punishment_ and earned a long scowl and a longer punishment for himself.

The daily occurrences lasted until the incident with Kreacher, when she was in a hurry after lunch and ordered the elf to watch Regulus and not let the boy leave the table until he ate everything, only to come home hours later to a very dramatic scene: her son planted on the same chair, profusely crying, with Sirius standing at his side, embracing him, planting comforting kisses on his head and muttering something she couldn’t distinguish but resulted in what appeared to be a moderately positive outcome as Regulus seemed slightly less inconsolable, while Kreacher was frantically punishing himself by beating his head against the wall, behind her sons – and for the looks of it, that mess was happening for a good while.

“Sirius Orion, tell me what is happening,” she demanded, startling both boys, rage and frustration arising in her voice for it was obvious that Regulus, once again, petulantly decided to disobey her.

At the sound of her voice, Regulus turned his head to face her and pleaded, before his brother could answer, words coming out hurried and imbued with a dash of guilt, that she allowed him without interrupting. “Please, Mother, make Kreacher stop, I tried to order him to take the food away and to let me leave and now he’s punishing himself because I kept insisting and he didn’t want to contradict anybody’s orders and I tried to make him stop but he obeys for a minute and begins punishing himself all over again, I don’t think he’s even listening anymore!”

So she did, slightly taken aback by the lack of control that was uncharacteristic of him, a calm and collected child, sending Kreacher – all purples and scratches from the antithetical nature of the orders received – to the kitchen and a reluctant Sirius to his bedroom. She felt a sudden wave of exhaustion, and for the first time, the urge for inquiring about his condition was bigger than her fear of the answer – of a scenario were this condition is not fixable, and the old Regulus, her beloved child, the one with the sweetest smile and head in the right place, trapped inside this undignified version, a meek shadow of someone once full of life, that is currently fading away under protruding bones and sunken eyes.

“Why?” She inquired, the simplicity of the word concealed by the heaviness of months of wishing and worrying, yet allowing herself the tiniest amount of hope for the possibility of an upcoming revelation of something she could use to take her son back.

For a small eternity, there was nothing but heavy silence between mother and son – her silence, for finally asking aloud and for concern over the possibility of having turned things to be more difficult, after all, Regulus was very much a reserved boy and could be impossibly stubborn in a quiet but resolute way; his, for the sudden forthrightness over a subject everyone was too uncomfortable to face and mostly pretended to be non-existent, which, quite frankly, was how he preferred the matter to remain.

“I don’t know,” the boy at last confessed in a tone that evolved soft resignation. “Thank you for making Kreacher stop, and no need to worry – I’m just not feeling myself lately,” and following his lie there was a pained, helpless curving of the corners of his lips and a hesitant hand on her shoulder – a poor attempt to offer some comfort, in an empty movement devoid of anything a smile should express.

He did his best to remain in his room for two full days after that, and Walburga, after the matter, mostly let him with his strange habits, almost ceasing all comments at the table, as long as he was present at least for dinner – especially after she found out his little trick when she relented and let him have dinner in his room, an embarrassingly obvious failure from her part.

She feared the day he would go to his room and refuse coming out for good. As strange as it sounded, it didn’t seem too far from reality, and that was enough for a heart filled with dread and hesitance.

It began with a fever last summer (not exactly, but it was uncomfortable to think about that – so he didn’t). The light fever progressed and was followed by nausea. Spending days in bed, feeling sick at the mere sight of the bows of soups and their faint smells that were still too much to his sensibilized nose and stomach and by refusing everything but water, which slowed his recovery considerably, something changed, and Regulus grew too attached to the comfort of the attentions he was receiving and too detached of his body’s hunger signals – he learned such things could be perfectly ignored.

The illness passed; something else, something that somehow has always been there, stayed, and thrived, and consumed him.

And in this new game, Regulus found a fresh sense of purpose, to have something to work for and aspire to that didn’t involve being a good second Black son – no matter how hard he tried, he knew he could never quite match Sirius, despite doing better academically. Grades are not everything to determine one’s capability of taking and exceeding at the role of being head of family, or running businesses. Sometimes he wondered if there was even a point of him being born aside serving as precaution, a spare, in case the original heir passes away or does something worthy of being blasted out of the family; there is, of course, his side role as a behavioral measurement to how much his brother is obeying, often making comparisons that would never work as their parents seemingly thought it would. Sirius would never go out of his way to be obedient just because his little brother received compliments. Sirius possesses the spirit of a true leader, and it would be beneath him to fall for such tricks.

Regulus liked being praised, and never saw the point in blatant rebellion.

As things were turning out to be, his brother, despite all his rebellious nature, seemed to fulfill his duty finely up until the point, meaning he, the younger son, should try to find his own purpose, his own path, or just accept whatever bride is arranged to him, and wander through an existence devoid of meaning. Sirius would give continuity to their noble house; he had no true reason to be.

Honestly, this was quite frightening if put in comparison with having a future settled out at the occasion of birth, ready to live, something his brother often complained about.  
In a way, this secret felt almost special, a feeling he begrudgingly recognized as childish; something exclusively his, that not even Sirius, the closest person to him, the one he  
loves the most, or anybody else would understand, except, perhaps, for great-aunt Cassiopeia, who, despite all his effort to not raise suspicion on family gatherings, in order to not make himself an embarrassment to his parents, sometimes looked at him in a way that, besides expressing what could only be described as pity – rather insulting, really – felt like a strange connection, as if she understood, but thankfully never made a comment regarding the subject.

Even if she did, he would _never_ give anything away.

So all their interaction regarding the subject was both of them eyeing suspiciously at each other's plates at family gatherings. An elderly woman and him, a teenage boy, comparing fillet sizes and potato pieces. A strange duo doing strange comparisons.

She never accepts the _hors_ _d'oeuvre_ , barely sipps any wine but always empties the water glasses and orders a refill. At tea gatherings, she only takes the cucumber bite-sized sandwiches and likes her teas pure as their blood – no honey, sugar or milk. And always, always takes a painfully long time to finish.

No one ever commented because she’s of an advanced age and a small woman. She’s dainty and elegant, that’s all. The same, unfortunately, couldn’t be said about him: aunt Druella took a habit of pointing out how he “needs more meat in his bones,” and that always made him want to hide away in his room and crawl his nails on dry, pale skin.

Regulus remembered how mother used to deny food as punishment for misbehaviour, denying him a place at the table over foolish things such as placing a toy at the sitting room and forgetting to collect it. A growling stomach for a child that didn’t meet expectations. Bad behaviour entails punishment. Those were the first times breathing in the feeling of emptiness, and learning how it was perfectly endurable, knowlegde that would solidify into the depths of his mind later. Memorizing it’s stages, from the pangs to nothingness. He could take the pain, because he kew what was comming after.

The private nature of the matter could be both a curse and a bless, for he didn’t wish it upon any of his loved ones, yet it was something he couldn’t avoid but feel compelled to do, his little chore and, in a way, a selfish indulgence that put their parents eyes truly on him for once, and though most of the time it felt tiring and hard to manage – almost a compulsion, it was nothing out of his control. The idea of coming back to how he was before slipped into his mind at times, feathery-soft and easy, after feeling the burn on his legs and lungs for going up the stairs or taking long walks, or the vertigo making him see stars over blackness and having to hold still not to fall back on his seat whenever he standed up too fast, the off-pacing of his heartbeats, or the overall feeling of weakness and numbness – a bit unfit for a Black, whose mind should be sharp at all times – that cost him the seeker position in the Quidditch team, which he hesitantly gave up before he could make a fool of himself and failed his Hogwarts house. After all, it would be pointless to spend energy on something he couldn’t be the best at anymore. Perfection entails knowing when to quit something helpless. But he never, never succumbed to the temptation; couldn’t back away.

 _Too_ _late_ _for_ _me_.

 _It_. He couldn’t even name something that never left his mind and grew slow and steady each passing day. All day pacing in his bedroom, or reading, or doing anything solely to the purpose of distracting himself from unwanted enticements – the urges to put an end on the pangs in his stomach. Even with Sirius, his much needed presence was (rarely) at times used as a distraction. Regulus felt guilty whenever such thoughts lingered in his mind, but mostly, what bothered him was being a subject of worry, as if his brother hasn’t plenty of worries with learning his duties as future head of family and avoiding Mother’s not-so-subtle hints at marriage prospects.  
Sirius, who probably found him less and less attractive by the day. Not that he could describe himself as being particularly attractive to begin with; another thing in which he simply wasn’t good enough.

The five course dinner was a bother to be endured on a daily basis; a penance, after the time Mother caught him vanishing food from the tray – allegedly, he was not feeling well and was supposed to have dinner in his room – and made his presence at the table mandatory. While Kreacher served the appetizer, he mentally listed his meals from earlier in the day and established the limits: tonight, one bite of each course was allowed, just so the plates weren’t untouched, which would hopefully be enough to avoid any inquiring from Mother. An exception could be made for the salad course – vegetables could be finished – and, of course, no dessert.  
Yesterday was a bad day, and he needed to compensate for his failure.

 _Quod_ _me_ _nutrit_ _me_ _destruit_.

He remembered finding the quote in one of the old dust-covered books in the attic, and it was one of those simple glimpses in life that somehow never fully leaves the memory and sporadically comes back. The phrase always came back to memory, in the deturped meaning he made out of it, subverting the original intent.

Regulus took it too literally to really make sense.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the table, the feeling of being observed was, as every day, unsettling; the tip of his long, slender fingers were taping incessantly on his leg under the table, faster than the too slow-paced sounds of a clock in the wall, dragging time while he desperately tried to think of a topic of conversation to fill in the uncomfortable silence. Before he could muster any, Father began his announcement, with his baritone, cold voice.

  
“Regulus, your mother and I were discussing the matter of your education and we came to the conclusion that it would be for the best if you were taught at home this year. Hogwarts isn’t meeting the standards that we expect upon the education of a pureblood young man, thus, we believe you’d benefit from better management over the subjects you’re expected to learn. I made a formal request over your homeschooling, and it was approved. There are arrangements in progress for tutors and a proper workroom, of course, and you may start in a fortnight, if everything goes as planned.”

  
So that’s why Regulus was summoned to Father’s study and exchanged brief words with two members of Hogwarts Board of Governors. He was politely excused shortly after, and no one bothered to tell anything relevant.

  
The intonation made clear that there was no room for opposing or questioning the reason behind anything in their decision. Not that he would dare anyway, the reason was painfully obvious.

  
Besides, that wouldn’t be a problem, Regulus, though proud of being a Slytherin, didn’t like that school much and would rather stay at home,where it's safe and privet.

  
He would miss no one there, and the feeling – or rather, the lack of – goes the other way around. A subject that used to inspire some mockeries from Sirius, him being virtually friendless; a few times, with drops of worry that made Regulus feel embarrassed and inadequate for barely being able to make acquaintances, so he much preferred when there was no space for that and Sirius was insensitive and ruthless in his teasing – that Sirius he met with much more frequency in their infancy, and could deal with in much more familiarity.

  
Careful and considerate Sirius was, in a way, scary for being seemingly better to read between lines reasonably easily and notice things Regulus would much prefer to keep in private. But his insensitivity and ruthlessness seemed to mostly die away with his childhood, giving place to something softer and yet showing it’s cruel facet at rare times, mostly when defied and denied from his wishes – it was easy to read the frustration, Sirius never managed to learn how to control his temperament in face of being contradicted, never accepting a denial without a fight, and though Regulus considered this particular trace of personality as childish, he also wondered if this could be an interesting trait as a sign of resilience and willpower from not giving away.

  
“Yes, Father,” he complied with the only possible answer, intending to seek more information about the arrangements at another time.

Sirius was facing him across the table with a carefully neutral expression, as if trying to figure out if what was said was a good or bad thing, so as a way to ease his mind, Regulus gave a reassuring smile and proceeded to ask about his day.

  
“Nothing interesting,” Sirius began with a dismissive gesture of his hand, “just spent the morning going through boring accountability books, then had a meeting at lunch, and more boring work in the afternoon – some legal research over antique pieces that originally belonged to our family,” he finished, reaching for his wine glass and taking a sip.

  
In all fairness, it didn’t sound like the most exciting assignments, not to someone so energetic as his brother, but those works were certainly not boring for Regulus; perhaps he could ask for a more detailed description and offer to help in the search, to find something useful to do while his lessons didn’t start. Doing research work was entertaining enough, and he was quite proud of his abilities on it – he has helped before, and being an avid reader and attentive to details, he managed to make himself useful in more than one occasion. Soon after, Mother decided to provide her own description of the day’s activities, revealing an unpleasant detail that Sirius left behind.

  
“We had a lovely lunch with Victoire Nott and her daughter, Ada. She seems to be a very well raised and intelligent young lady,” she began, pausing briefly to order Kreacher to bring in the main course, before continuing, assuming a lower, almost mocking tone, “She also seemed quite charmed by Sirius; when he– ”

  
“Oh, mother, please, we discussed it,” Sirius interjected, visibly frustrated, “why don’t we give this a break? I’m only nineteen, how many times do I have to say I don’t have any intentions to be betrothed until at least a couple of years ahead? There’s no need to hurry things.”

  
With that, all the little appetite Regulus had at that interminable dinner was gone, and his hesitancy ( _fear_ ) to swallow anything grew to an blatant unwillingness ( _fear_ , _stop_ _lying_ _to_ _yourself_ ) to do it. Putting his fork – which up until the point was being used to leave marks over his potatoes or smashing them and nothing else – down, he studied Mother’s reaction to Sirius rude interruption, waiting for a reprimand that came across as mild in comparison to what they usually got, her eyes glowed with the smallest hint of amusement – as if she was expecting the interruption and was mostly provoking.

“I will kindly forgive your lack of manners, Sirius Orion, to remind you that there are considerably few ladies from respectable families near your age, and the more you wait, lesser will be the suitable options when the time comes.”

Regulus did his best to let his mind wander away from their light bickering, resuming the tapping of fingers on his leg, waiting until a reasonable time to excuse himself.

He missed the look Sirius shot at him.

Alone and undressed, standing in front of the mirror, he observed thoroughly the reflection. Turning to look at the knots of his spine with a small sense of pride, placing a hand on his back and tracing the round marks with his fingers, lightly, Regulus wondered if the day when he would ever be content enough with what he sees would come – most likely not, he knew. What he was facing was the image of dedication.

_For what, really?_

But Regulus knew well that the image of his body would certainly not be appealing to anyone else – not even for himself really, it was mostly about accomplishing something, seeing the fruits from his efforts and lose some of his softness; he could pass as someone sick, though not severely so, judging by what he saw, even when taken into account the appalling state of his hair – it had lost all it’s shine and was falling in much more frequency and quantity than it should – and the darkened crescents under his eyes. Those could be easily covered with a glamour spell, his solution on the rare days he left Grimmauld Place or whenever there were visitors in the house.

Then, his hands moved to his ribcage; he liked sliding his fingers and counting them. As time passes, the higher the number goes, the deeper his skin retracts and embraces the bones. A very simple number game.

  
Cheekbones are a little more prominent.

  
His face is where he desires for sharp edges the most. It is the pivot of his insatisfaction; as a child, he was always the target of women talking about how cute he was and pinching his cheeks, an adjective continuously heard through his life at Hogwarts by girls giggling with their friends and failing at their attempts to subtlety. How classless.

The ever-present surprise looks upon the revelation of his age followed by “You look younger!” and derivatives.

But the worst of all was the constant teasing comparing him to a girl by other Slytherins.

  
He remember, after one of his last matches and possibly one of his best for, by luck, spotting and managing catching the snitch within the first twenty minutes of game, his best time, the team was leaving the dressing room and passed through the Gryffindor seeker, a girl whose name he didn’t bother to learn, glaring at Regulus with another teammate. Knowing Gryffindors, they probably assumed he somehow managed to cheat the game, and his team mates probably could deduce so, yet they managed to turn the glares of the losers into something else.

  
“Look, Black, they look ready to drop you from your broom next game.”

  
“I bet they’re just jealous," Rosier mocked, and had the nerve to throw an arm around his shoulders very firmly upon what he said, which took away Regulus chance at walking away and preserving some dignity, "you know, because you’re prettier than those rags.” 

  
He remembered the loud sounds of their laughters increasing the burning sensation of public humiliation in his chest.

  
He won the game so fast they didn’t even have time to properly sweat, and not even a fast and easy victory was enough to earn some shred of respect. Of course, naturally there was a lot of mockery going around, but none of the other boys were teased that same way. Never the whole “pretty” annoyance.

  
Well, at least he did retaliate with a well-crafted plan to ruin Rosier’s potions assignment – a partnership project that ended up with a very crossed Snape.

After years enduring Rosier’s mockeries, the coincidence that it was Snape was the cherry on top of the cake, because a crossed Snape was obviously something to be wary of. He wished to do more, but recognized his other ideas were a bit too much for just annoying bullying. Regulus saw how much worse teasing could get. He saw his brother acting with his cronies many times to know that teenagers knew how to make someone's life terrible with the simples things.

  
He didn’t want to be called cute, or pretty boy. Such words had the habit of making his stomach churn. He wanted to be handsome. Or not being called anything at all regarding physical appearance.

  
There was a knock on the door. With a brief look at the clock over the fireplace, he acknowledged it was half past eleven, meaning the knock would most likely be from his brother – the only person to find reason to enter his room so late into the night.

  
After rapidly putting on his nightshirt, knowing full well that it wouldn't be long before he would be once again undressed, he opened the door with his wand.

  
As Sirius came in, he was bitterly remembered that there was one important matter regarding his physical appearance that could not be solved, unless he kept his glamour on all hours of the day – even then, he couldn’t fully veil his problems. Hiding from Sirius was not an option as he _knew_ , but how could he not? Sirius was the only one to see him, entirely.

  
As they began kissing, he wondered once again at what point Sirius would get tired or find him unpleasant to look at and stop seeking out for him, stop stealing kisses behind the shelves in the library so the portraits of their ancestors wouldn’t discover their liaison and caressing his ugliness with cold fingers that send shocks under his skin for more than mere temperature difference when they were secretly together in the early hours of morning. When his brother would find a suitable bride, kind and beautiful and adequate. When Regulus would inevitably move out of his childhood home.

  
Such thoughts began to slowly disappear as Sirius waved the worries away by, once again, monopolizing all his attention with his gentle touches and husky voice, turning them into a buzz fading into the depths of his mind, until he was momentarily free of the constant anxieties to enjoy the evening, his shallow breathing and occasional gasps denouncing his arousal.

  
He was powerless under Sirius, and would let his brother get whatever he wanted from him, whenever he wanted.

  
And if his brother would, at some point, cease this aspect of their lives, certainly, that wouldn't be the night, for Sirius seemed and felt as invested as always, placing a trail of wet kisses down his back while he entered Regulus with fingers coated in lube, preparing him to what was going to follow, the bed creaking slightly from their movements, announcing their debauchery to empty space.

  
Regulus, feeling the brush of the sheets on his cock held onto the fabric tightly, blushed face pressed against the softness of his pillow in vain attempt to muffle completely the sounds from coming out of his lips; no matter how many times he was asked not to hide them, he found his lack of control to be a bit embarrassing.

  
Sirius was taking a painfully long time with his fingers, and Regulus knew from prior experience that it wouldn’t change a thing to ask him to go faster – despite all his general carelessness, Sirius was resolute about taking his time to make sure the experience would be as painless as possible – but he pushed against said fingers nonetheless, in a gesture that showed his impatience, which prompted Sirius to move him around so they could face each other.

  
“Touch yourself,” Sirius commanded, and he eagerly complied, closing his hand around his cock while his brother added – finally – a third finger and focused openly at his hand moving up and down, causing a gasp and a wave of heat in his stomach.  
“Good boy,” Sirius praised, with that voice of his, and Regulus couldn’t help his cries.  
When Regulus was nearly giving up to shamelessly ask to be taken, he saw Sirius coating himself with lube and replacing the fingers with something that made him ache and withdraw the hand from his length – whenever Sirius was inside, he liked focusing solely on the feeling. Slowly being entered, he tangled his legs around his brother’s waist and attempted to move forward, panting for a little pain, but was stopped by a firm grip on his hips, a gesture with the underlying message of who got to choose their rhythm.

  
Sirius really ought to stop treating him like glass, at least at those times when he seeked for roughness and the intense feeling of being stretched too much,too fast; he liked the overwhelming feeling of Sirius’s thick cock filling him just a tad too early. But soon enough, if everything goes as usual, the same hands that stopped him would be grasping at his hips hard enough to hold him still for all the harshness to come.

  
After the first slow, careful thrusts that were making his toes curl and his head spin, Sirius began to move his hips with more eagerness, hitting a spot that made him lose the last shred of self control and moan, the sound coming out long, wanton and breathy, the first of several others that came as Sirius kept the pace, this time allowing him to push in encounter to the thrusts, intensifying the sounds of their skin meeting and once again grabbing the sheets beneath to find support, sensing drops of sweat on his nape and forehead, muttering, as they continued, incoherencies that in all probability would posteriorly make him blush.

  
Then, the signs of Sirius’s impending orgasm began to show: the heavy breathing, the tighter grasp on Regulus’s hip bones marking red over ivory skin and few blue veins showing underneath – perhaps one small and instinctual hint of his brother’s possessiveness, ever so spoiled and accostumed to possess anything he wants – the look of utter concentration on his handsome features and the much faster, much harder and out of control thrusts, until he closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and released the first spurt along with a low grow, moving erratically a few more thrusts and filling Regulus with more seed; the sense of fullness making him burn in need and his insides clench against Sirius's lenght, locking them connected.

  
This was the Sirius that made him quiver in desire; not the one who treated him like glass, like he was frail and needed to be handled with utmost care (though it could be nice, just not in such context), but this one, the one who had no inhibitions and took what he wanted made Regulus weak in the knees from the thought alone, such was the power his older brother held over him – and at these times, if Sirius ever claimed ownership or anything akin to over him, he would probably eagerly comply.

  
Sirius’s expression softened and he opened his eyes, locking their gazes as he pulled out, and Regulus could feel the wetness of his brother’s release leaking out of him. Sirius closed a warm hand around his cock, stroking steadily, and not long after – for he was so, so close – he too finished, with a final moan of a name, teary-eyed and carrying such devotion it almost frightened him.

  
After cleaning the mess with a spell, they lay together and Regulus put his head against Sirius's chest, closing his eyes and hearing the familiar sound of his heartbeat, a comforting rhythm that helped sleep to come faster on many nights, feeling his brother’s fingers going through his hair fondly.

When he was nearly dozing off, the muttered sound of his name was heard.

“Reg?”

He hummed in question, lazy in his satisfation.

“You’re breathtakingly beautiful.”

The confession had his eyes open in startlement; but didn’t dare to look up, nor say anything, initially.

Sirius can’t see what he sees. No one can.

  
He certainly wasn’t deserving of such a compliment, and was scared of what would come out of his mouth if at the risk of sounding self-pitying or insincere. He resorted to an half-hearted attempt at subtly dodging the compliment.

“Must be a family trait.” 


	2. Chapter 2

It was at a family dinner that his illusion of control crumbled to a new, unsettling realization.

Everything was planned out; though probably no one would notice him enough to say much beyond a greeting, much less to pay attention on the contents of his plate, he would be cautious and, to prevent any embarrassing comments or eyebrow raises, decided that eating all courses was a must – and no, just using the fork to push the food around so it would look like it was being eaten wouldn't do (not that he was under illusion that it actually worked and fooled anyone, but neither his parents nor Sirius seemed willing to ever point that particular habit out, so he kept doing it). 

Of course, either previous or posterior compensation measures were indispensable, and opting for the former ( _safer_ ), nothing but plain tea (no honey, like he used to have – a habit ceased months ago) passed through his lips from the previous two days until their gathering, which made for awkward silences at the table, more than the usual, and Mother on the very edge of saying something but remaining thankfully quiet.

He had a fainting spell on the second day, alone in his room. It didn’t cause any harm, as he was already on the bed, feeling poorly, but after waking up still by himself, a sense of solitude compressed his chest. A few stubborn tears had their way out, and he muffled his crying on the pillow, because he needed to keep silent, and didn't want to worry anyone for nothing.

With mild relief he noticed the absence of aunt Cassiopeia among the arriving guests, which was not a surprise, considering she rarely left the solitude of her home to be present at such events.

Kreacher passed with a tray offering the _hors d’oeuvre_ – crostini with goat cheese and fig-olive _tapenade_ , very frequently the choice for such occasions, as one of Mother’s favorite – which he promptly refused.

Regulus felt horribly misplaced among so many people, sulking on an armchair and avoiding any possible eye contact in a corner of the drawing room, after briefly welcoming the guests along with Sirius, under Father’s orders. It was a recurrent feeling, the disconnection, as if he wasn’t a Black just as the rest of them, but an outsider observing a group without belonging; that was his own fault, his own ineptitude, he thought; being shy could be as efficient as a notice-me-not charm on making him unnoticeable. 

To add to his discomfort, the regimen of teas and subsequent passing out took quite a toll on his disposition – a miscalculation, it should’ve been postponed to the day after – leaving him feeling rather tired, and with a growing stomach pain.

Looking at nothing but his hands, placed on his lap, wondering how much longer he would have to wait until a reasonable time to retire to his bedroom and get a much needed night of sleep, he didn’t notice the approximation of uncle Alphard until the sound of a low voice took him out of his thoughts. They usually didn’t interact much besides short exchanges of polite questions – his uncle quite clearly had a preference for Sirius’s company, who in exchange, had him as his favourite uncle. Their personalities and personal interests just didn't match, altohugh the same could be said about Sirius and him. Quickly looking around the room, Regulus spotted his brother near Father and Grandfather, the three with a glass in hand, though his drink seemed as if he hadn’t had a single sip, making a point of looking bored. 

“I see there must be something very interesting about your hands, you’ve been looking at them for quite a while.”

“Hi-” straightening his posture, Regulus found it quite difficult to formulate an adequate answer in his surprise, “I mean, good evening, uncle Alphard. And uhm...nothing in particular.” He mentally cringed for his terrible conversational skills, unconsciously moving his arms to the cushioned armrests of the chair.

“I see,” Alphard answered,arching an eyebrow. “Are you feeling alright? You don’t seem very well. Do you want me to reach Burgie?” 

Straight to the point, but after all, nothing far of their usually short interactions.

“I’m fine, just a bit indisposed. Thank you for offering, but really, there’s no need to.” Regulus assured, hoping it would be enough to close the matter.

Uncle Alphard didn’t seem fully convinced, frowning at his answer but before he could say anything, dinner was announced, and thankfully, the subject was dropped as both headed to the dining room, where Regulus promptly found a seat between Narcissa and Sirius, eager to avoid any insistence.

Despite previous plans, as soon as Kreacher served him a small plate containing mushrooms stuffed with something, Regulus realized that perhaps finishing each course would be a harder task than initially thought. 

He wasn’t hungry at all.

So, he forced himself to try, and found that the food, albeit light, wasn’t sitting well on his stomach, making the pain worse. Despite the effort, he did left a bit on the plate, but soon Kreacher collected it to serve the next course.

The olive oil on the salad in tiny, rich golden points, made him more than a bit unwilling to touch it. Why does everything have to be oily or greasy? 

When the following course was served – fish – he didn’t even want to touch it with the fork. He was already full, and didn’t want– didn’t _need_ any more food. The stomach pain wasn't diminishing in the least, and the thought of retiring for the night was, although terribly appealing, not particularly smart, for it would certainly earn a reprimand if brought to concretization.

After sipping a bit of water, he took a long breath and cut a small piece. Fish wasn’t that bad, not greasy like red meat could be. _Would be,_ as an upcoming dish. And Yet. There was an unbearable tightness on his chest. The fork stopped mid-air and was put down back to the ornamented plate, delicately, to avoid any clatter sound. Another sip of water, this time for a longer time, to give himself a pause. Then, a brief fidgeting with the napkin sitting on his lap. Soft fabric sliding nicely on a set of anxious fingers.

The courses were small - it couldn't be different with the variety being served, but they set like stones in his stomach. Little more than stuffed mushrooms and lettuce were enough to him to want to flee.

The fork was lifted once again, and this time, Regulus tasted the fish.

The flavour was good enough, but did not overrule the growing discomfort at the situation. Quickly glancing over, his perceived hesitance must have taken more time than previously thought, since everyone else was, at least, halfway through their plates, even with all the chatting around. Even Cissa, who once confessed not particularly like fish but always finishing for the sake of politeness, was over halfway trough her dish. That encouraged a fastening of pace, where he made an effort to try not to think, to just mechanically swallow whatever was placed before him, pointedly ignoring the slight tremble of his hands and hearing the conversation progressing to uncle Alphard telling a story about one of his travels, involving capybaras and a bitting fairy or something. It would surely be entertaining to hear if it wasn’t for the creeping anxiety. The guests certainly thought so, as there was the occasional laughter – controlled and musical, the ladies putting delicate hands to cover the sight of their teeth, as was customary. Minus Sirius. His laugh was distinctive among everyone else's, as his brother had an ugly laugh, a tad higher; a tad happier and truer too. Regulus adored the sound of it, in all its non-melodic cheerfulness.

At the point where the main course was served, steak with roasted potatoes, Regulus stared at it for the longest time, then cut all of the meat in little squares as equal as possible – which would surely earn a reprimand if mother noticed for playing with food like a child – that were not appetizing in the least ( _they are, but you mustn’t),_ feeling as his breath got shorter before giving up and excusing himself in such a quiet voice and rather hushed wording that most likely nobody heard the unintelligible mumbling – no one except for Sirius, who raised an eyebrow but thankfully kept his usually big mouth in silence and didn’t comment anything.

After placing the napkin on the chair and rushing to the washroom with the tight feeling in his chest growing until he felt suffocated by his night-blue robes and locking himself inside, he leaned against the door and began wondering if it would be for the best to give up and just go upstairs and order Kreacher to pass a message for Mother and retire for the night, for he was in no condition to maintain an appropriate behavior.

Nothing was going accordingly with his expectations; something so silly as a meal wasn’t supposed to be such a nerve-wrecking event. With a sigh of disappointment at his failure, he slided down to sit on the floor and pondered about what had gone wrong.

How things turned to such a downward spiral of anxiety, when the occasion was nothing complicated or unusual to begin with? Why did he have to be like this, and make such a fuss over a simple matter? Not only he was aware beforehanded, but also prepared for it.

At what point things slipped _out of control_?

With a heavy pang on his chest, it striked him that, in fact, it was the opposite case, no matter how much he had tried to deny. He had no control to begin with, not with all the efforts put into changing his routine to pursue something so abstract, so umphontomable, that he didn’t even know what the point was; what was he chasing, after all?

_You will never get what you want._

What could be achieved that justifies feeling _fear_ of something as banal as eating a piece of steak? 

_Why?_ And the voice inside his head sounded suspiciously like Mother's.

Perhaps, among other indefinite answers, was the need for attention, initially appealing, but even that turned into making no sense, because he despised the pitied glances and insistent attempts to force him to things that he didn’t wanted – like when Mother forced him for hours to stare food that he would not eat, no matter what – and began wishing for the opposite, for everyone to leave him be, just like before. Or a rebel act against his body for being all wrong, too close to a boy’s rather than a man’s, despite his age. Or a distractor from what torments him the _most_. But what would life be, if not constant the constant changing of everything? What would be the point of everything remaining the same?

_You can’t pretend you’ll live here and have Sirius forever._

The so-called sense of accomplishment at the sight of bones marking skin or when fingertips touched when circled around his upper arm was nothing but physical degradation – a manifestation of his sick thoughts. 

Yet, it has a strong influence on his thoughts – the night’s disastrous behaviour serving as proof for that – and that keeps forcibly and insistently pushing ideas onto one’s mind until those ideas outshines other possibilities and becomes the only clear path to follow. A pull to self-destruction.

Standing up slowly and facing the ornate framed mirror, it became clear why uncle Alphard went out of his way to ask if he was alright; the reflection showed the pallor of his face worse than usual, without the mild rosiness often carried on his cheeks, which only accentuated the dark circles under his eyes, which, in conjunction with dry lips devoid of any colour, made for a very tired appearance, a ghostly existence, a view that made him tighten his lips in disapproval. 

There were three knocks on the door, light and with small pauses between each knock, as if the person was unsure or hesitant to do so.

“Yes?” He politely asked, instead of the petulant phrasing in his head of _please fuck off and leave me alone._

“Reg? Are you alright? Open the door.”

With mild relief at recognizing the voice as Sirius’s, and not Mother coming to reprehend him for spending too much time locked in there – although he would probably know right away if she was bothered enough to go find him – Regulus opened the door, intending to step out of the washroom, but Sirius held his forearms gently while stepping ahead, as an indication for him go back inside, probably a measure for some privacy, which, obviously, they wouldn’t get being at the hall.

“Siri? What– ”

“Reg, what’s wrong? Uncle Alphard said you looked a bit ill earlier,” Sirius interrupted, worry evident on his tone and expression.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really, just– ”

“Don’t lie, it’s quite obvious you’re not alright, otherwise you wouldn’t slide out on a family gathering pale as a ghost to lock yourself in the washroom no matter how boring they are, so just tell me, okay? This time at least, just tell me,” his brother pleaded.

He knew what Sirius meant; but he couldn’t give what he wanted, so all he could do was letting excuses roll out of his tongue with practised ease.

“My stomach hurts, nothing too bad, but I’ll go upstairs and lay down for a bit. Would you please inform Mother?”

“I’m sending Kreacher. I’m going with you. I’m tired of them anyway.”

“You don’t have to, I’m just going to rest for a while. Didn’t Father mention Grandfather wanting to discuss something with you after dinner? He’ll be mad at you if you don’t go back.”

“So what? He’s mad at me half of the time anyway, and if it’s anything important, I’m sure it can be discussed another day. Most likely, it’s just another attempt at pressuring me to get engaged with some ugly, boring witch again. Don’t know what all the hurry is for,” he shrugged his shoulders and opened the door, “Besides, I’d much rather stay with you.”

Those casual confessions awaken bitter resentment. They always gave him a hint of hope for something that, no matter how much he ached for, would never be achievable; It was important to keep in mind that it was all temporary, thus pointless to expect more. If they couldn’t produce an heir, they weren’t meant to be. Sirius was free enough to profess them, but this scrap of freedom permitted little more.

After summoning Kreacher to pass the information, they headed to Regulus's bedroom, where both laid on the bed, facing each other, foreheads almost touching. 

Being so close, feeling his brother’s breath and warmth eased his mind a little; ignoring the pang in his stomach, Regulus reached Sirius’s cheek with a feather-touch before closing the distance with a couple of tender kisses on the lips that escalated rather quickly as he felt a firm embrace on his waist, tasting remnants of the rich flavour of the aged Cabernet Sauvignon served at dinner. 

Sirius must have not forgotten their prior conversation downstairs though, as there weren’t any attempts to take things further – no wandering hands lower than his waist – as would normally happen, and after a final peck on the lips, his brother standed up and started fussing about and tucking him in the duvet, saying that he should get some sleep.

“Siri? Will you stay?” He asked, feeling awfully vulnerable, holding the duvet to cover him up to his chin. In childhood, this was a recurrent question in stormy nights, when his brother used to, as quietly as possible, open his door – the sound of it cracking open for many times an immense relief – to see if he was awake and scared. Or when himself took initiative whenever his brother didn’t show up and used to enter his bedroom on tiptoes, careful, in case he was asleep, but he probably wasn’t able to keep the silent he thought to be keeping, because his brother always woke up at the right time and lifted the covers as an invitation for him to slide under.

But such fear was gone by that point, replaced for a bunch of them that required much more complexity to solve than a night of sleep next to Sirius – the very epicenter of some of them.

“Of course.”

  
  
  
  


Next morning, Regulus awoke to find Sirius still there, with an arm placed over his waist, spreaded on bed, hair disposed in a dark mess on the pillow, lips slightly parted and relaxed expression – a nice change of picture from his usual self, as the casually messy conjunction made him look quite...adorable. Suppressing a smile, he almost regretted breaking the connection as he carefully moved said arm to quietly get out of bed, noticing how he fell asleep in formal attire with a frown.

Managing to change and step out of the room without waking his brother, the faint sound of his parent’s voices were leaking through a partially opened door at the end of the hallway. 

He should not pry; such invasion of privacy would certainly get him reprimanded in case he was found, but intuition – or perhaps it was just inner thoughts justifying what could be just pure curiosity – that he should get closer got the better of him. Approaching the sounds with nearly soundless steps and pointedly ignoring how sore his legs were feeling, what was indistinguishable began to make definite words and there was evidence that, in fact, it would be of his interest to hear when his name was proffered, by mother, with an emotional intonation – must be something important, then.

Hearing a faint crack on the floor from a step, a brief, tense pause followed; but there were no suspicious interruptions or words that indicated getting caught, so, resuming the slow walk until getting close to the door in a safe position to not be seen, the contents of his parent’s argument became clear.

“Again? Sending for another appointment would be pointless.” It was his father's voice, his usual stern tone taken by what sounded like frustration.

Well, Father had a point. A healer was previously contacted, but couldn't find a cause for his lack of appetite. Regulus got nervous for the chance of being caught, but all ended up fine. They got it wrong; he wasn't uncapable of feeling hunger, he was just...unwilling to take action over it.

Mother must have had disagreement in her expression, for he continued, justifying his previous words. “Oh, don’t give me this face Wally, surely you must’ve noticed what this is all for, right? Attention. The second the boy makes some ridiculous excuse or leaves the table after just playing with the food around the plate for the entirety of the meal you and Sirius start to fuss about him. What he needs is harsher discipline. You’ve become too lenient on him, and now my son is acting like some foolish _girl_ on a diet.” The sound of Orion’s voice was dripping with despise.

Regulus bit his lower lip. Maybe he really shouldn’t pry at his parent’s conversations, after all.

“Fine.” Mother spat out the word, clearly upset at being contradicted, “Assuming you’re right, I believe it's still valid to send for someone. Consulting a healer shouldn't do any harm, and if it is for attention, there's still measures to be taken. I’m aware – I’m aware it didn’t fix things last time, but perhaps another healer might give a useful insight, besides, the last potions recommendations might need some improvements.” A deep breath sound could be heard through the door. “You haven’t _seen_ him, Orion, but I have. Things changed since he came back from school, for the worse. He’s wasting away– “ A pause, and a strange, low sound followed, “I have no idea why, but he is, and no mother wishes to see their child wasting away.”

More of that strange, shaky sound was heard, then, louder, a sob. That’s when Regulus had the unsettling realization that _Walburga Black was crying_. Never did he see or hear of such a thing; his mother was the very definition of fierce, and the sound of her crying was, aside from utterly surprising, heartbreaking, especially being at fault to such an uncharacteristic response.

“It’s alright, we’ll send for a healer,” sounds of rustling fabric could be heard, ”Come here, there’s no need for this, you’ll see, this will be fixed sooner than you expect." The comforting words – another surprise, and it’s intimacy felt far too much to testimony – were so low it was barely distinguishable, the poorly suppressed sobs passing through the door and reaching him as pure guilt.

With the same slow and careful pace, Regulus moved away from the scene and went downstairs.

  
  


Healer Grant was a short man, with a receding hairline of dark blonde hair and sullen face, who carried himself with straight shoulders – slightly out of balance as he walked due to a subtle limp on his left leg – and chin up, wearing golden-framed glasses and carrying a dark-brown leather bag. Overall, he made the impression of a knowledgeable and straightforward man.

As Mother, the only one beside himself and the healer to remain in the room, described what was the purpose of their summoning, a wave of shame made him avert his eyes away for a short while. Thankfully, Phineas Nigellus’s portrait, hanging over the fireplace, was empty or the man would surely have some depreciative, embarrassing comments to make.

If the healer found anything weird – or, as Father seemed to think, an attention grabbing trick that could be resolved with discipline which was not that far from what Regulus thought – about mother’s descriptions, he didn’t say or change his expression in the slightest, despite Regulus looking very attentively for it.

Several questions about his habits followed, which led to a reluctant confession over some side effects – such as the constant cramps, dizzy spells, the funny feeling on his heart – a detailed physical examination – even the slightly bluish discoloration under his nails were noted and commented; poor circulation, healer Grant said – including the most embarrassing one, when a big metal object, a scale suspiciously resembling muggle machinery, was pulled out of the bag and he glanced nervously towards his mother, who would certainly have something to say in case she shared his suspicions but aside from briefly furrowing her brows kept impassive.

The object was levitated to the center of the room, and he was required to step over it. As soon as the pointer fixed on a number he could say it was bad, judging by the first change in the man’s expression. Regulus never got weighed, aside from when he was a baby; it just wasn’t a necessity up until this point, but now, he secretly wished to have one of those to hide in his bedroom. It would probably make it much easier to measure progress.

After some diagnosis spells, finally the tense silence ended as he sat down, gesturing for both to follow his example, took two vials and a piece of parchment from his bag and started to write as he spoke about his recommendations, nutrition-wise, and the necessity of gaining a the _very_ minimum – and the Healer made it clear that ideally, this number would be higher – of twenty eight pounds (which sounded scary – such a number is just _too much_ ) and how his overall health would improve with time if followed the recommendations thoroughly. 

It was all predictable, excepting the number, really, but what was truly informative came later.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Black, there are no studies over your condition among the wizarding community, but muggle, a royal physician, Sir William Gull had some very helpful insights over this particular condition in the past century, as well as posterior studies that only incremented the knowlegde about it," and that was said with a glance towards mother, as if daring her to interrupt. "They call it Anorexia Nervosa, it’s a mental illness characterized by abnormally low body weight and often associated with other conditions such as melancholy and anxiety – and for the later, Mr. Black, you displayed some signals, if Mrs. Black’s observations are to be taken into account. Your symptoms matches the ones described on those studies.”

Mother shifted in her place as if wanting to interrupt, but Healer Grant simply raised a hand to refrain her, and she looked surprised – being refrained from speaking was definitely out of norm for her.

“Regardless of naming – and I assume lady Black is of the same opinion – the course of treatment is the most relevant part, and depends on the family's and patient’s disposition to cooperate, mostly from the patient, I must say. There are no potions or spells that can induce you to improve, only to alleviate some of the symptoms, but they are no definitive solutions and, ultimately, it is you who can do most of the work towards getting better, as the root of your condition is the mind, not the body. And this work consists in basically following these recommendations,” he pointed at the parchment, “which resumes in two objectives: eating enough to gain weight, and posteriorly, being able to maintain it without relapsing to old habits. Now here,” he continued while moving the potion vials closer to Regulus, “are potions to improve your fatigue, both, taken that the cause for fatigue, in your case, is a result of the lack of multiple nutrients. The purple should be taken within a twelve-hour interval for three weeks, and the green one, once a day, always around the same time, uninterruptedly until our next appointment. Speaking of which, to monitor your progress and make the proper adjustments nutrition and potion-wise, I’d suggest we meet at least once a month. And I should warn you, Mr. Black, at this point, you’re under imminent risk of death. The heart rate changes you mentioned are a sign of your heart struggling, and yours is slower than the expected from a young man at your age. Undernourishment for long periods of time implies the risk of organ failures, thus the risk I mentioned. It is true that, if taken rapid action, a problem of this nature can be fixed with the correct healing charms, but of course, better to work to avoid that.” He began writing again. "As long as you follow treatment, your heart rate will increase naturally, and all will go back to normal, hopefully with no permanent damage. Do you have any questions?” The man casually asked, as if he didn’t just have said a plethora of scary things.

Feeling quite astonished by the flux of information provided, Regulus knew that later, he would probably come out with a few, but at the moment, all he could muster was a timid “No, sir.”

Taking a look to his side, it was clear that mother didn’t take the healer’s words well. Her tense shoulders and flushed face, as well as one of her hands closed in a fist on her lap despite her neutral face indicated that, most likely, in a short time there would be some shouting and perhaps even some hexing involved. Referring to muggle research in a Black household would, surely, sound as a great offense and a near sacrilege for her ears. Honestly, her patience, in Regulus’s experience, lasted for quite a long time, all things considered.

“Aside from what we discussed, it is imprecindible that, for the most as possible, Mr. Black, you rest. The muscle fatigue is a result of your body, since it's deprived of nutrition, breaking down muscle for producing energy."

Mother was still silent, so he politely accepted the advice. "Yes, Healer Grant."

"Should any questions surge, you can always contact my office and I’ll send word as soon as possible. Now, I’d like a word in private with Lady Black, if there’s no problem. As I mentioned, family’s cooperation is a part of the process, so I’d like to discuss the terms in which that could happen.” 

Mother looked on the verge of murdering the man, such intensity held her gaze, but in the end, she acquiesced to the request and after a brief exchange of goodbyes – and another reassurance that he could send any questions – she reached him near the door and, with a firm squeeze, a grip a bit too strong on his shoulder, muttered near his ear, “Don’t say a word. Go straight to your room and stay there until I go find you.” 

On the empty hallway, Regulus could feel the sweat forming on his palms and his heart rate getting higher as he walked as fast as possible, reaching his bedroom without being spotted by Sirius or father. With a glance at the clock, he could see why – three in the afternoon, so surely they’ll be busy.

Twenty-eight. The magical number to _fix_ him _._

It wasn’t even a proposital action: his feet began pacing around the room as his mind ran much faster than the steady steps. Twenty-eight pounds. The small vegetable sacks he saw Kreacher levitate from the storage room before christmas were measured in pounds, it was written over it. But instead of stiff, colorful vegetables, a couple of those bags in equivalence to pure fat. _Soft like a girl._ No, no, comparing one’s body weight with dinner ingredients has to be the most idiotic comparison he could make.

 _Anorexia nervosa_.

The term resonated clinical and impersonate, almost inadequate considering the wild train of thoughts that brought him to the _verge_ of _not being fine_. Sounded like distancing too, as transferring his fault and responsibility over his actions to an unknown, technical, _muggle_ term. 

And to think– to think nobody even asked what _he_ wanted, what _he_ was willing to do; as if his input over his own condition – now unveiled, not a nameless entity hidden in his head anymore – was irrelevant. In fact, what an audacity of that healer! Daring the mention of muggle research, which Regulus naturally didn’t and certainly wouldn't want to have access over. A presented fact that he could not verify for its veracity. Perhaps Mother's anger wasn’t so bad after all; she surely won’t make him comply with muggle knowledge.Well, just a name, really, but that ought to be enough to her. Yes, he could see why what was said could be partially right and he indeed had a deteriorating health that required him to gain some weight, that much was clear, logical. But things didn’t have to be so...so _drastic_. Small changes would work better.

Knowing probably the only words spoken about the healer in the future – that is if his mother wouldn’t simply ignore that the events of this afternoon ever happened – were going to be undoubtedly negative,he took a chair near the window and grabbed a book, managing to end a chapter when a knock was heard, and Mother, of course, didn’t bother to wait for his answer to enter. 

She seemed rather collected, not at all the image of anger expected. Whilst it might be a relief not be the listener to what could be a long tirade over the competence and qualification of healers on present days, unexpectancy was not a comfortable situation when she was involved.

Sitting on the bed, so they could face each other, and taking a long breath – which made him mentally brace himself – she began to speak in a tone with as much properness of a woman in her position could muster over such a delicate subject. Cold and distant.

“First of all, I need to know you’ll take this seriously, and will follow instructions without questioning.”

“I will, Mother,” he lied in a heartbeat, as neutral as possible. A pointless effort, as she easily saw through the mask of dutiful son.

“You will not lie to your mother, Regulus Arcturus. You heard healer Grant; you must truly commit if you wish to get better. Will you put in effort into this, and act accordingly to advise?”

“Are you truly taking into consideration what that healer has to say, Mother, even when he used information based off of muggle research?”

“That’s not a proper answer.” She pointed.

The sounds of burgeoning nature outside his window were the only sounds reverberating through the tension in an cheerfulness improper for the moment; lying wouldn’t work, and he wasn’t convinced it would be the best course to follow that man’s recommendations. A pitiful impasse from someone utterly lost.

“I could _Imperio_ you, make you forcibly comply,” her strained voice cutted through his thoughts, sharp and dark, “or use legilimency to manipulate your will, but I couldn’t carry this on forever, I _couldn’t_ ,” and taking his hands in hers, in an uncommonly kind gesture, continued, “so you ought to understand, and accept what you must do. There’s no other way, Regulus, can’t you see? You’ll perish if you insist on fighting yourself. Perhaps you’ll only fully comprehend the weight of what you’re doing once you take the initiative to accept change. I don’t know what it is that is repelling you from trying, but,” she exhaled heavily, “I’ll be here. You have nothing to lose but this silly fear of yours. Parting from filthy mudbloods or not, we can’t ignore information. Cease pretending there’s nothing wrong when it’s an open secret.”

Regulus felt a familiar heat on his face and constricting feeling in his throat, processing the emotional outburst, when to his horror, a wet sensation descended on his flushed cheeks. Immediately removing his hands away and reaching for a handkerchief, he standed up and faced the window, hiding the display of weakness from his mother, who, thankfully, remained seated and in silence – whether simply for respect or for not knowing how to act, he didn’t know, but was thankful for nonetheless.

After staring out at the garden and wiping his tears with the soft material for quite some time, he finally turned around to face her with an answer.

Her haughty grey eyes, that so many times used to input fear and obedience from him, were fixed on him and did not carry such power, instead, they gleamed with something that he knew was close enough to the hesitancy in his own eyes. 

Despite the eerie comfort and shaky security from everything wrong, from his inadequacies and the ephemerality of life that only the feeling of emptiness could provide, it wasn’t worth such a vision, especially when it started to become a regular sight. Mother shouldn’t suffer from his doings.

And not just on her, but on Sirius too, as if Regulus was somehow contaminating them with gloom and uncertainty.

She had a good point. There was no good reason to not at least try.

“I promise I’ll do my best.” That ought to be enough.

“I expected nothing less from you.” And the corners of her painted dark red lips lifted in the most subtle way. Although a modest one, it was nice to give her a reason to smile.

Standing up – presumably to leave, as their conversation reached a conclusion – a last precaution.

“And let’s keep this subject between you and I. You mustn’t say a word for neither Sirius nor your father, do you understand?”

He nodded. It was not in his plans anyway.

“Good. One last thing–” after placing the vials on the bedside table, she walked towards the door, “you forgot to take those when you left. See you at dinner. We will begin today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally action is taken, but Walburga is a bit of a hypocrite here; while she doesn't want any mentions to muggles in her home, she's taking what the healer says and hidding the details from her son and husband, because she doesn't want anyone to know she'll keep accepting advice from someone that apparently doesn't hold the same beliefs and is hesitant to let anyone know about Regulus condition; also, she won't reject the services of someone who seems to be useful, especially being a mother seeking help to her son - a priority that overcomes her prejudices. Regulus is torn between the duality of logic and the influence of the disorder on his decisions. On a happier note, he seems to be reluctant but accepting of stepping out of his comfort zone.  
> See you next chapter! =)


	3. Chapter 3

First couple of weeks were less of a problem than what he initially thought. He got to eat surprisingly less than the thought he would be forced to, less than everyone else at the table, though certainly more than he’d choose to. 

This first bubble of optimism didn't last, and the contents of his plate were progressively getting bigger, to a point where he began to struggle physically; after all, Regulus was never one with much appetite to begin with. When he was little, he recalled, there was a day having tea with aunt Druella, she casually saying between bites how he ate like a little bird, and mother added his terribly picky habits to her commentary. But regardless of discomfort, under mother’s watchful eyes, he had no other option, under the menace of being watched constantly by an elf of hired nurse. Gradually, it got easier to stomach without feeling sick, or without feeling as if he would burst. At least, on the physical spectrum.

However, the mind was a much more intricate affair, rooted to old habits, hesitant to let go, and sometimes it was hard to watch the table and reflect on why everyone got to eat less than him, why everyone got the tiny portions that used to seem so much while he got that small extra amount that unfailingly put him in a bad mood.

Mother must have told something to Father and Sirius; some watered-down, censored version of what happened in his appointment, because so far, no one commented on the sudden change of habits. Not on the potions he took after lunch, not on the food, not on his appearance - something he was much relieved for, and hoped the silence, regarding this particular subject, would last. Father would most certainly have something to say should he know the full version; but as things were, Orion took the habit of observing him a little too long sometimes, with the slightest hint of curiosity, but whenever he looked back, his gaze was avoided, and grey eyes unfailingly turned away to the newspaper, the table, anything but him. But comprehension will always be out of Father’s reach regarding this problem, Regulus thought; after all, how can someone understand something they don’t quite believe in first place? 

Sirius had the same lingering curiosity, quite more open than their reticent Father, but unlike him, his brother had little patience, and ought to press for information at any time. That is, _if_ he gets over whatever held him back for this long.

  
  
  
  


About two weeks later, he noticed a particular change that reopened a void full of doubts.

There was a vein, bluish and ugly, crossing his upper arm, from near the junction of arm and shoulder to reach close to his elbow. It was nearly invisible now considering how it used to stood out; a clear sign of his arm getting thicker, fuller – for reassurance, he tried to circle his fingers around his upper arm and found that, although the circle was closed, it wasn’t as effortless as before, with room for more.

That was to be expected, but nonetheless, it was unsettling.

As irrational as it is he craved the light dizziness of running on empty. The compromise. The thriving mental notes at night after having a good day; the plannings for when he had a bad one and even missed spending nights thinking of excuses in case anyone ever asked why he skipped meals at Hogwarts (no one did – the closest would be Slughorn, but Regulus made sure to show up at his stupid dinners, which avoided the interrogations that would surely happen should he be a complete recluse); the little challenges he set for himself " _The amount of days I manage to skip lunch before next Hogsmeade weekend will be the amount of items I'll be allowed to buy."_

Lunch that day sat heavy in his stomach, and he desperately looked for a distraction, to stop thinking when he knew his mind wouldn’t come with anything positive, _because all progress was being wasted,_ eventually finding some easiness in the chaos of Sirius’s study, a much needed refuge from his chasing thoughts. 

The amount of parchments all over Sirius’s table were the first thing Regulus noticed upon his entering, followed by how everything seemed to be out of place in the shelves behind Sirius’s table. And the faint smell of alcohol. “Honestly, this place looks like you threw a party and then let some pixies in. How you seem to know where everything astonishes me.”

“That’s because it’s an organized mess, Reg. Parchments are all over but there’s some logic about how I spread them around.”

He highly doubted the words, as Sirius could find any document with a simple _accio_ and was never one to mind about organization, always leaving things behind and out of place with a casualness Regulus could never dare. 

His brother was as easy and casual in habits as he was in company. Easy to understand, easy to talk to, easy to want.

“I was wondering if there’s anything I can help you with. I’m bored.” It was not quite the work he was after – he did have work to finish from his lessons – but the company.

“You have a very weird manner of unboring yourself, if that’s what you’re after. But yeah, I’m drowning in work here and you’re welcome to help.”

Sirius passed him a lengthy contract to be reviewed and Regulus sat across from Sirius and began reading.

“Reg?” The older brother asked, after a long time of silence.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re getting better. I know there’s a long way to go, but you look healthier.”

This simple comment evoked a weird mixture of feelings for Regulus. On one side, Sirius was right and he _should_ feel content about seeming better; on the other side, the very same feeling of disappointment from earlier in the day, upon noticing the first signs of his body changing, clouded his judgement. The word failure was a stubborn one, always with the undesired habit of peeking about his thoughts and turning pessimism into a constant to his every move and thought and change. Yes, objectively, he could say he was getting healthier. And yet, "heathier" bothered him greatly.

Sometimes, Regulus wondered; where does the person end and disease begins? Is there even such a line, a definite point over such an abstract thing as his mind? Are both too interwinged to even exist the possibility of defining the edges, dissolved into one another, making impossible erase one without significantly damaging the other? Worse, is there even such division, two separate entities, fusioned or not, or there is no such thing, and in reality, all this mess is a trace of his personality, inherent of his being, turning the word “cure” an impossible feat, and “getting better” a very volatile and fragile condition?

Perhaps Mother is wrong in her hopes; perhaps he is truly lost.

Perhaps this is one shape of madness manifesting after a long time of hiding in the shadowed corners of his head, corrupting his blood, that by itself held a obscure history of a handful of Blacks losing themselves, but instead of the same violent streaks against others, his madness shifted to its own brand that was limited to harming only its hostage.

“Thank you,” and he gave his brother a smile, perfect curve of the lips, the right amount of teeth showing, “I’m glad too.”

Sirius seemed to like his smile. That’s why he practised it.

  
  
  
  


He always – in varying degrees of consciousness – thought that he was supposed to follow the steps of his older brother. Even envied him for not possessing that smooth charm that easied his path through pureblood society, not handsome, shorter, though he still had some time to grow, _frailer_ , a smaller existence; and yet, he knew Sirius also envied him for being, for many years, the model child their parents wanted so badly, when in reality, none of them were. He lacked the confidence; his brother, the sense of duty and the discipline. The perfect child of Orion and Walburga didn’t exist, because that would entail someone a little more than Regulus and a little less than Sirius, an equilibrium of the right aspects. Both were imperfect, tough now he was falling even more behind the line.

And then there was the matter of Mother’s behaviour; a point out of the curve. She was not one to bow to anything muggle-related; now she was breaking the confidence of her husband, her lord, to protect the connection with that healer. And her menaces. She wasn’t one to _just_ threaten someone, without at least a little preview for demonstration. Walburga Black was someone who didn’t hesitate, and yet, all she seemed to be doing lately was exactly that. And putting hope onto him.

Such things were holding him from sabotaging his prescribed treatment.

Despite a myriad of shifting thoughts, some things were fixed in the chaotic vault of his mind. One of them was that meeting expectations was important. 

That was why he kept going; Regulus revels in making his family content and proud.

Except.

It was getting harder and harder and harder, and he couldn’t stop _thinking._

He left the room where his appointment was scheduled to happen, Mother following behind, walking with the assurance that everything was going as planned. Healer Grant congratulated him for keeping at par with the plan and gaining a few pounds, and a _couple more than expected_.

“I knew you wouldn’t be a disappointment,” Mother put a hand delicately on his shoulder, expression bright with optimism brought by the announcement of good results, “always giving your best at your duties, as a Black son should.”

_But I am. I am a disappointment._

“I believe you’re deserving of a little indulgence today. I’ll send an owl to cancel your afternoon classes today, and we can go shopping. Melania spoke well of a recently opened atelier in Paris, and I believe it’s time to order new robes for you.”

By the amusement in her voice, Regulus knew the plans were mostly about _her_ fondness of shopping rather than truly about recompensing him, but it would certainly be a more eventful afternoon than his original scheduled classes – History and Runes.

They went separate ways – the mother, to send an owl to Regulus’s tutors; the son, to his dressing room.

Magic was truly a wonderful thing, Regulus thought, because a touch of a bracelet later, their forms disappeared from a stormy London to materialize under a blue sky and bright sunshine in Paris, at an avenue mostly frequented by the higher classes of the wizarding community. 

They attracted a few quick glances upon the soft sound of their arrival and some lasting a bit more; probably due to Mother’s imponent figure, dressed in a dark red and black gown and keeping her head high and a confident stride resembling royalty. Confidence was a word that kept a tight relation with Walburga Black, late evnts aside. Some of Regulus’s first memories were of auntie Lucretia making subtle derogatory remarks about some detail – Mother’s fierce retorts not being lady-like, or looking too pale, or “ _Oh, perhaps you should put those biscuits down, Walburga, your waist is getting a bit fuller than last time I saw you”_ – but mother always waved them away as little more than dust floating on thin air, inconvenient but insignificant; a product of jealousy veneered with the amicable layer of friendship and casualness, because she knew few other witches could match her in beauty and social position as Lady Black. No critique ever poked at the right places to affect her, it seemed, a trace of personality that Sirius inherited, and Regulus could only wish for.

They ambled along the many vitrines, watching the displayed clothing, the shiny gemstones of the jewelleries, the trinkets, the books, until they stopped at her intended destiny and ordered a nice set of dress robes for him; with the fabrics and designs she thought would fit him best.

The lady who was taking his measures _did_ look at him in a funny way that made him regret accepting Mother's invitation, but the worse was to come as they left the shop and came across one of Mother’s acquaintances.

“Walburga!” 

Coming from the opposite direction, a woman accompanied by a young lady who vaguely resembled her walked faster to shorten the distance between them.

The woman seemed to be in her mid-forties, thin lines over her partially hidden by a hat forehead and between her brows – she must frown a lot – in an otherwise spotless and unmarked face. Her eyes were a light brown, the same as the girl beside her, and she was considerably shorter than Mother. 

Mother, it seemed, didn’t quite like the woman, because she turned a bit rigid upon hearing her name. “Oh, Victoire, Ada. Nice to see you, It’s been a while.”

“Yes, dear, we need to schedule another luncheon, I believe I have some news that will be of your interest.” Then, her eyes darted to him for the first time. “And I presume this gentleman is your youngest?”

“Yes, this is Regulus.” Mother turned to him to properly introduce the woman. “Regulus, this is Victoria Nott and her daughter, Ada.”

So _that_ was the person mother was provoking Sirius about at the dinner table, he thought, measuring the girl. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Nott,” he bowed slightly, turning to address the daughter, who stood slightly behind her mother, “Miss Nott.”

Miss Nott, it seemed, was quite shy, as she flushed a bit and only replied with a nod.

She was a couple of inches taller than her mother, so the shorter woman didn’t do much to hide her.

“Such a gentleman; I see he takes after his father, only a bit too thin to fully resemble Orion about his age.” The tell-tale of Mother’s short temper was her fingers curling at her side, and as Regulus looked down at his side, there were her nails disappearing into her fist.

Victoire Nott was either too thick to notice or brave enough to not care, because continued talking as if completely unaware. “Speaking of age, would he be of age yet?” She asked with a glint in her eye, as if she was concocting some plan in her head. Well, every pureblood mother did, when their child grew to an eligible age for bethrotals. The right contacts could provide the right marriage contracts.

“No,” mother began talking, voice sounding a bit off, “but he will, soon. His birthday is about three months from now.”

“Oh, then he’s the same age as Ada. Would she not frequent _Beauxbatons_ , they could’ve been classmates.”

“Yes, I’m sure they’d be good acquaintances. I’m terribly sorry to cut the conversation short, but I do have to hurry, Orion is waiting for me at home.” An excuse, of course. Father wouldn’t be at home until hours later. “Perhaps we could schedule that lunch you mentioned, I’ll be sure to send you an owl.”

“Ah, yes, sorry to take your time. It was lovely to see you.” The woman turned to her daughter, “Ada, stop moping behind me and say goodbye to Walburga and the handsome young man.”

Merlin, this was why he avoided leaving home.

  
  
  


As awkward as they were, Regulus prefered having dinner at home, and that night wasn’t any different; Mother wanted to dine out and reserved a table, so they all left Grimmauld Place at precisely eight o'clock.

  
  
  


Dinner is always the longest affair in the world, and he observed how easily the task of having a meal was executed by everyone but him.

“We had an appointment with healer Grant today,” Mother commented, to fill the silence, “said Regulus is making progress, and is responding better than expected to treatment.”

“Well, it’s about time.” Father commented, earning a glare from Sirius across the table, but he either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care, because he made no reproach.

“Yes, Orion. About time,” Mother responded, exchanging glances with him in a manner that was clearly meaning beyond what Sirius and him were supposed to know.

Regulus stared at his dinner. Twenty-five peas. Half of the purée. The rest was irrelevant.

_I don’t want to finish. I want to go home. I hate feeling full._

Regulus could feel it; he was on the verge of snapping and quitting everything. That’s why, upon returning to the sanctuary of his bedroom a little over an hour later, he thought of something.

_Just this time, and I’ll never do it again._

But Sirius showed up before he had the chance to try to purge the burdening guilt out of his stomach and mind, just as he stood up to walk into the bathroom.

He also thought about vanishing the food but should the spell not go as planned, he’d have serious problems. Such as vanishing his stomach together with dinner. _At least I wouldn't have to eat anything at all._

Somehow, his brother always showed up at the right times. Sirius’s presence in the same room in moments of distress was his biggest source of comfort.

“Can you stay the night? I really don’t want to be alone.” Regulus was shameless about asking for what must be close to the millionth time like a scared little child, because being alone with his thoughts was scarier, and Sirius wouldn’t mind. Probably. Never did before.

_No. You need to go there and try._

Regulus glanced at his bathroom door.

“Of course, Reg. Is something wrong?” Sirius asked, a frown of worry forming between his eyebrows.

In times like this, Regulus always thought of how much he didn’t deserve someone like Sirius beside him.

“No. I just miss you. We haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

Apparently, not being forward was beginning to take a toll on his older brother. He could tell Sirius had been refraining from addressing things directly for a long time, despite normally being someone that wasn’t afraid of holding a thought back. Sirius was firm and direct with his words, so much that sometimes his words were like a slap of honesty and directness among a household of people used to subtlety and playing with underlying meanings; but not regarding this particular issue. This was where Sirius's directness route never took action. Until now, apparently.

“Can you just talk to me about what is going on?” He asked, with a hint of frustration.

Regulus, completely taken by surprise, leaned on his side on the bed before answering. “I’m sorry?”

“Stop keeping me out. How can I help you if all you do is hide, and mother just tells me not to interfere? Tell me about it.”

Regulus retorted with a faltering voice, for his nightmare seemed just about to happen. “There’s– there’s nothing you can do.” 

“I worry so much about you,” Sirius began, sitting up on the bed and gently taking his brother’s arms to do the same. “All I think is what must be going on here,” he pressed a light finger over Regulus forehead, then placed a hand on lifeless hair and began caressing the dark waves, a gesture that eased some of Regulus’s tension, though he still remained silent.

“And if there’s nothing I can do,” long fingers began unbuttoning Regulus’s cape – still wearing the evening attire for dinner – sliding the outer layer of fabric down, before proceeding to undo the tie, and the next layers, uncovering the sight of bare chest. Undoing his entanglements in such an easy and natural way that it felt like the aftermaths of a warm embrace. “Then at least you can tell me what that healer had to say, and how you feel; let me share what is haunting you. I feel hopeless when you hide yourself from me, and I know the same applies for you. If not for yourself, for me.”

Sirius rested a gentle hand over Regulus’s chest, palm sliding down, feeling the contouring of bones and pausing for a brief moment, as if it was the first time he _noticed_ , despite touching that same skin so many times, and he was trying to understand what stood beneath his touch, then down again, opening his palm against his brother’s belly, sliding through his waist to his back, where the same process began. Discovery, of what he already knew but only now was openly acknowledging.

Regulus felt awfully exposed, eager to cover himself, to make Sirius stop touching him when it meant something different than usual, as if such a simple gesture, this time, surpassed the thin layer of veneered intimacy that kept each of them painfully aware of the non-crossable line; but he was pushed to a deep kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, and Sirius closed his arms so tightly around him, one hand pressing his head impossibly close, that the intent might as well be trying to merge them both into one being. His bare chest was painfully crushed against soft fabric and cold, metallic buttons and a thumping heart, and once again he was crumbling.

Sirius bit his lower lip, and finally let him have a pause for breathing, though he panted for more as soon his lips were free.

He moved forward to sit on Sirius’s lap, wrapping arms and legs around him as he grinded, feeling the outcome of his actions under him.

He lowered his mouth on the strong jaw before him, leaving a trail of kisses down onto a pale neck, sucking right on top of where he could feel a pulse.

Sirius then held his face, to lock gazes and measure words, because lately, all they shared was carefully measured.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes,” Regulus breathed.

“Then you ought to stop trying to distract me.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Yes you were, even though I know it was not the sole reason,” and Sirius reached down on the tension in his trousers to make his point.

And just like this, because Sirius kept insisting, and he was so tired, he walked from the soft and easy absence of words to step into the wide and dangerous territory of being truthful about himself.

_What if Sirius doesn’t like what he hears?_

_What am I thinking? Of course he won't._

_What really is at stake is_ _how_ _he won’t like it._

Regulus disentagled from Sirius and looked at the headboard, keeping his gaze over the dark wood. Some things are hard to confess, even for himself.

 _“_ I can’t tell exactly when it started. I suspect it’s always been somewhere in my head. Before, I used to think it might be connected to Mother’s punishments, but you also went through them and didn’t break like me.” 

Nails began lightly imprinting crescents inside his closed fist, providing something else to feel.“I’m not sure how to describe this...it just there and grows, one meal at a time, each time I put my fork down and refuse food. There's...there's this sense of accomplishment and control about it, and it's strangely addicting. I began noticing bad physical signs that were getting progressively harder to ignore; I feel so tired all the time,but my thoughts say I must be stronger than that, and again and again I let myself fall for its lies. I loathe the guilt I feel when I eat; I loathe that I do feel guilt over something so stupid. After this last healer I am trying to get better, as you did have noticed. But getting over it feels like failure, as if I’m weak willed for quitting. It takes time to relearn good habits, or so healer Grant says, so I’m just trying to hold onto it.”

He turned to face Sirius’s grey orbes once again. Pleadings and promises must be spoken looking in the eye.

“I _want_ to get better, to be honest, I’m not quite sure it’s possible, but I _want,_ this I can promise you. I hope you don’t take this as me being beyond salvation, as I myself thought.”

Regulus could feel his legs growing numb from sitting over them. He felt so tired,as if opening up consumed the last of his energy, and he just wanted to lay down and sleep.

Sirius, for once, looked to be completely out of words. His expression was an odd combination of solemn and confused – the latter completely understandable, seeing as Regulus just confessed a bunch of nonsense that even himself couldn’t fully comprehend. Some things just can’t be properly explained if the other person doesn’t have their own experience in the subject. 

“I– Thank you, Reg. I know you don’t like opening up very much, but this was necessary to, you know, our relationship. We can’t hide things from each other, not important ones, at least. I’m sorry I didn’t ask before, I just...I don’t know, couldn’t bring myself to do it. Thought you’d shut me out. But I certainly don’t think you’re beyond salvation, don’t be so dramatic,” he said, and despite his words, pushed Regulus to a heartfelt embrace.

“I can see you’re improving, and I believe you,” Sirius promised in a whisper, chin resting over Regulus’s head.

Regulus buried his face into the warm promise of faith and breathed, “Thank you, Siri. It means a lot to me.”

  
  
  
  


"So, twenty-one pounds to go, huh?"

“Yes, and stop trying to hand-feed me those grapes,” Regulus glared half-heartedly. 

Sirius, in the next day of his confession, like the obvious person he was, decided to ignore the impressive pile of work at his desk to drag Regulus out to a picnic at the backyard, a habit they had in childhood and was progressively forgotten after his brother started school.

It was an enjoyable, fresh and solar afternoon, so it wasn’t at all a bad idea to revive an outdoors tradition. Kreacher, according to Sirius, was strangely solicitous to him upon his planning – because of course his brother just thought to make it a surprise – a behaviour which Regulus rewarded with a pat in the head, for the elf’s immense satisfaction. 

Maybe Kreacher would grow to be better to Sirius, and vice-versa. Their bickering was frankly annoying.

“And why can’t I?”

“Someone could see us. Besides, I do possess the ability to pick up my own food, thank you.” Regulus retorted, taking the small porcelain plate out of his brother’s hands.

“So what? They won’t see anything suspicious. It’s just me trying to take care of my baby brother.”

Regulus threw a grape at Sirius. “Really? Imagine if you caught, let’s say, Rodolphus hand-feeding Rabastan, as two grown men; what would you think?”

“Gross. Right, I get your point. About uh, the weight thing, how about we set some rewarding system or something?”

“Mother’s ahead of you on this; she did order new clothes and keeps offering to buy me things. Honestly, I’d rather avoid talking about numbers; besides, being compensated to do something basic that I’m supposed to do anyway makes me feel like a target of condescension.”

“Aw, but I just wanted to spoil my baby brother a little," he pouted. "But seriously, how can I help, then?” Sirius inquired.

“I don’t know, just keep being...you, I guess. You help me more than you probably notice.” Regulus confessed, feeling his cheeks grow impossibly hot upon his brother’s grin.

He picked the last grape and gazed down at the variety over the picnic cloth; Sirius clearly put some thought on the menu, because all of Regulus’s childhood favourites were there, even the rabbit-shaped biscuits and sparkly juice were included.

Sirius was good enough of a conversationalist to keep him distracted enough of most negative thoughts, and for once in a long time he came to realize that eating, at least at the moment, wasn’t so much of a burden, but something he _could_ see himself relearning to enjoy. 

There was an assuaging power and a sense of nostalgia rooted in simplicity, and Regulus found that he missed it. The easy days of infancy, buried by the heaviness of a multitude of responsibilities and fears intertwined in growing up that culminated in this constant feeling of having no autonomy over his own life. 

He wasn’t under any illusion that it’d always be like this, as Regulus was aware he wasn’t exactly an optimist; but perhaps there wasn’t anything wrong in holding some hope, after all. To be _carefully positive._

Maybe after the next appointment he’ll tell Mother where he’d really like to go instead of following her into crowded streets for another shopping–spree. Somewhere calmer – perhaps a library; he’d read most of the books that really picked his interest available at Grimmauld and was in need to renew his stock. Maybe he’ll invite Sirius too, to be open about doing better. Open to mother that Sirius too has a right to know, as his older brother.

_Quod me nutrit me destruit._

It was truly beginning to make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s an open ending, but an optimistic one. Recovery usually takes a long time, and it’s tricky even with resources like inpatient treatment and therapy; relapsing is very common in AN cases (some sources points relapse rates to over 50% after first year of treatment, and over 30% within 2.5 years), so I didn’t want an end where things were completely fixed.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Please let me hear your thoughts, and if you have constructive criticism or any correction to make, feel free to do so.  
> 


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